This week’s Sunday Picture Press at Indigo Spider was a fun one to write. Please pop by and read the outstanding work of other writers there. Perhaps even participate!
Six-year-old Harry was worried so, on the third day of his mother’s silence, he acted.
He waited until she lay down for her afternoon nap then snuck out of the apartment. Once on the street, he knew what to look for.
The trouble had begun when his father won that ridiculous award at the newspaper company where he worked.
“No more!” his father had shouted, waving about the golden pen he won as a prize. Both Harry and his mother, seated on the couch in the living room, had cringed.
“Ah,” Harry smiled as he came upon the box his father had thrown out. It was on the sidewalk one block down from the one on which he lived.
Harry found a discarded wooden frame and propped it against a side of the large box. He used the wooden frame as a step to raise himself and peered into the box.
“Found you,” he said to the clichés inside.
His mother would no longer be all dressed up with nowhere to go. And although his father had an axe to grind with common speech, the old man had painted himself into a corner by banishing the same old song and dance in his own home.
Harry tipped the box over and stuffed the clichés into his pockets. Whistling a happy tune, he skipped back to the apartment to wake his mother with the good news.